


That'll Be The Day

by jesslikesthebeatles



Series: That'll Be The Day [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Alcoholism, Alzheimers, Drug Use, F/M, Family Issues, John is a cutie, M/M, Sherlock kinda likes sex a lot, Suicide, Unilock, childhood best friends, reunited
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-19 10:36:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1466245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesslikesthebeatles/pseuds/jesslikesthebeatles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock were best friends as children, but when John lost his dad aged ten, his family moved away to start afresh. John has just finished his second year of university and he is heading back to the quiet village where his mum and sister are caring for his grandad, who suffers from Alzheimers. John is eager to reunite with Sherlock. He isn't sure what to expect, but the sexual tension and pure attraction certainly is a surprise...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Going Home

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you all enjoy my work, comments (praise or constructive criticism) are very welcome :)

John leaned back in to the train seat and sighed. He looked thoughtfully out of the window, watching as tall buildings and greasy spoons gradually transformed in to quaint villages and country pubs. It was a lovely summer day, the first week of June, and John tried his best to relax, the stress of essays and exams behind him now for another four months. 

For the upteenth time, John reminded himself that he was going home, but deep down he felt that London was his home now. True, he had spent the first ten years of his life in the quiet, crumbling village that was almost three hours away by train, but the last ten had been spent in the bustling and busy capital city, where he had first moved with his mum and sister after his dad died, and then had attended university there too. He knew he would miss the busy roads, the bright lights, the sounds he was used to hearing at night... 

John smiled as he remembered the tantrum he had had when his mum had told him that they were moving to London. He had been ten years old, and his dad had died in a car accident four or five months earlier. The grief was still very much a part of all their lives but it was getting easier and John was slowly learning to live without his dad. But moving, he had thought, was out of the question. He didn't want to leave his home, he didn't want to leave his grandparents, and he absolutely didn't want to leave Sherlock. 

Sitting up a bit straighter, John thought back to his childhood, and his best friend, Sherlock Holmes, who he had known since he was a little boy. Sherlock lived in a huge house in the posh side of the village, with his dad, who was a politician, and his mum, who was a university lecturer, and his older brother, who John only saw a handful of times but always looked annoyed. John's mum had taken the then four year old John and his six year old sister, Harry, to the local park to play, and Sherlock had been taken there by his nanny, and that was that. 

Six years later, they were still friends, best friends even. They barely spent a day apart: they were glued together at school, where Sherlock helped John with their science experiments (which John found tiresome but Sherlock absolutely loved), and John helped Sherlock with their creative writing (which Sherlock found pointless but John really enjoyed), and after school they would spend hours playing together, drawing, making forts, running around the park, dashing about on their bikes and scooters. 

He hadn't wanted to leave Sherlock. John knew that nobody would understand him the way Sherlock did, but most importantly, he knew that nobody would understand Sherlock the way he did. Sherlock didn't get on well with other kids. He would tolerate them, if John asked him to, but he struggled to fit in, and only really liked John. 

As the train sped along, bringing John closer and closer to "home", John wondered what Sherlock was like now, and if he had gotten any better at making friends. **************** 

Harry was waiting for him on the platform with a six pack of cider. Deciding not to comment on the fact that it was barely three p.m., John accepted the cider, and they wandered off towards the park they had spent their childhood years in. 

It had been remade a few years back, it seemed, and instead of the simple swing set, slide, and seesaw, it now had a fancy climbing frame and all sorts of spaceage-ish things for the local kids to play on. Luckily, though, the swings were pretty standard. 

"Mum's worried you'll be shocked when you see grandad," Harry stated as they sat on the swings, their feet thudding gently on the tarmac as they eased back and forth. "So I'll warn you. He's thin, and pale, and looks like he's going to die any second." 

John finished his can. "Harry," he scolded. "Don't say things like that." 

"He calls me Louise a lot, and occasionally I get called Grace, but not as much," Harry continued, passing John his second and then opening her own. "He calls mum Grace a lot, though. It makes her cry. It's not fun, John." 

John stared off in to space as he thought about Hamish, his grandad, who was once the most amazing man John had ever met, bar his own father. Hamish was the best grandad a young boy could ask for. He was old, as grandads were, but he was fit and active for his age, as was his grandmother. They were always going out for their tea, going away to the seaside, doing up the garden, painting the house. 

Living only a street away meant that John could dash around to his grandad's house whenever he liked, and they would go on adventures together, playing pirates or cowboys and indians or space aliens, and his grandma would bring out cups of lemonade and custard cremes for when they were both tired out. John always took his new toys over to his grandad's first, and they'd built dozens of castles, cars, spaceships and miniature cities together. 

John had been in his first year of sixth form when his grandma Grace had died of pneumonia. He hadn't seen her for about five months; their visits had reduced to an annual week-long stay at Christmas. He loved his grandma; not quite in the same way he loved his grandad, who he had developed a deep bond with over the years, but he had been heartbroken to lose her. He attended his second funeral a few days later, his first having been his dad's. 

The funeral had taken place just a few streets from their old home and after nearly seven years without seeing him, John considered seeking out Sherlock, but his priority was caring for his mum and his grandad. The four days he spent there went by quickly and before he knew it, John was in the car going back to London. 

Hamish developed Alzheimers suddenly and quickly. John recalled his mum mentioning it when John first moved away to uni, but he was ashamed to admit he had been too caught up in meeting new people, writing essays, and getting drunk to really pay it that much attention. For one reason or another, since then, he hadn't seen his grandad, apart from briefly at Christmas. It was only when John's mum suggest that he spend the summer in the quaint little village, where Louise and Harry had moved a few months earlier, that John managed to get an idea of just how bad the Alzheimers had become. 

He didn't have much of a choice, in all honesty; the house that he was sharing with his uni friends for their third year of study wasn't available until September, anyway, and the contract for the flat they had now was finishing in mid-June. John's last exam was on the second of June, and after a few crazy nights out with his mates, he had surrendered, packing up all his stuff and heading back to the place that, a decade earlier, would have been home. 

Harry was looking at him thoughtfully. "Don't worry," she said softly. "You get used to it. The best thing to do is go along with whatever he's imagining. When he calls me Louise I just smile at him, I think it helps." 

They left the park, knowing that their mum would be wondering where they were, and headed up the steep pathway that took them in to the main village. Once at the very top, John paused. When he used to come to the park with Sherlock - once they were old enough to go by themselves - the pathway was the point where they separated to go home. Sherlock went left, on to Stanley Drive, where all the big, posh houses were, and John headed right, on to Morley Street, where neat little rows of terraced houses could be found. 

At ten years old, you don't think about things like whose parents are rich and whose are poor, or what the size of your house really means, but as a twenty year old, John couldn't help but wonder if things would be different now. He didn't know if Sherlock would want to be friends with him again... 

"John!" Harry called, already halfway along Morley Street. "Come on!" 

Glancing once more down Stanley Drive, John sighed, following his sister. Tomorrow, he would go and find Sherlock.


	2. We Meet Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock come face to face after ten years apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all who read the first chapter, and special thanks to those who commented and/or left kudos. It means a lot to me to know that people actually enjoy something I've written. I hope you like chapter 2!

"For fuck's sake! I'm not a child! Leave me alone!"

Harry's outburst was followed the loud slam of the front door as she left for work. She worked at a Clintons on the tiny high street in the centre of the village, and she was saving every penny she could to move to London to live with her girlfriend of three years, Clara. It didn't help, though, that Harry spent a large amount of her wages on alcohol instead of saving it. This added tension between Louise and Harry; Louise was hurt because Harry wanted to leave home, but also angry because Harry wasn't being responsible. How would Harry cope living away from home, with her girlfriend, if she couldn't even cope with saving money to do so? 

John rolled over in his bed, almost headbutting the cream-coloured wall, and listened as his mum complained about her daughter's attitude. A female voice responded, and for a moment, John couldn't think who his mum was talking to. There was thumping and gentle voices and then the door opened again. 

"Thanks, Carla," Louise said, "I'll see you later on, alright, dad? Have a good day." 

Ah, the respite nurse. John remembered being told that his grandad spent five days a week at the respite centre a few miles away, where he was cared for while Louise and Harry went to work, and where he could socialise with other elderly people who lived with Alzheimers and similar conditions. Louise didn't work on Wednesdays and Sundays so she was able to care for Hamish herself on those days. Harry, John had been told, had offered to care for Hamish when she could, as she only worked part-time, but Louise had taken responsbility. She had felt that it wasn't right to leave Harry in charge of Hamish's welfare when Louise wasn't around. 

John rolled on to his back and blinked up at the ceiling, the birds outside chirping as the sun shone nicely. He had the box room, which was fair enough as he was only staying for a few months, not forever. It was a little bit strange to be back in the house that he knew as "grandma and grandad's" but his mum and sister now called home, and John was trying his best to consider it to be home, too. Most of the rooms hadn't been redecorated, though, and so his temporary bedroom was still the same boring, barely-decorated box room that had been the home of the toys his grandparents kept around for them. 

He had dumped all of his stuff in the room last night and then spent the evening catching up with his mum and sister. His grandad had been brought home at six p.m., and John had held his breath, watching as the white-haired man was brought in in a wheelchair, staring straight ahead as his allocated nurse, Carla, chatted casually to Louise. 

Their eyes had met as soon as Hamish arrived in the room. John had swallowed nervously. It suddenly occurred to him that he had never encountered someone who suffered from Alzheimers. The last time he had spoken to his grandad, Hamish was just a little bit forgetful, and was doing fine otherwise. Now, it was clear, he spent a lot of the time unsure of who was who and what was going on. How did John deal with this? 

Hamish looked right and John and, clear as anything, said his grandson's name in a tone that could only be described as delight. Louise paused in amazement mid-sentence, and Harry looked bewildered. John had stooped forward, kneeling at his grandad's feet, and said hello to him. 

The smile vanished from Hamish's face and he frowned. "What you doing down there, lad? Get up of the floor. Grace? Grace, who's this boy?" 

John let his eyes sink closed. He had felt like crying, and he was surprised at his own emotional response: not that he was a robot, by any means, but he had prepared himself for this, and yet here he was, wet-eyed. A strange squeezing sensation was present in his chest, like a slow, agonising realisation that Hamish was gone, even if he was still there. 

Louise looked so sad, like she wanted to pick John and Harry up and take them away from the upsetting situation, as a mother would want to protect her babies, but of course she couldn't. Even if the option was there, Harry and John were adults now, and adults didn't get to run away; they had to deal with the harsh realities of life. Hamish continued to ask for his late wife, and ask who John was, and John thought to himself that this might be more challenging than he had expected it to be. 

Sighing, John got out of his temporary bed, and padded downstairs, pausing in the hallway to look at the photographs that his grandma had hung proudly on the walls. There were Louise and her two brothers, at various stages throughout their lives, and then Hamish and Grace's five grandchildren, as babies, toddlers, kids and teenagers. John recalled some photos - there was one of John, Harry, Louise, Hamish and Grace in Paris, from eight years ago - but not all of them. There were some of Hamish and Grace on their wedding day, happy and healthy and young, and John looked away before the sadness reached him. 

Twenty minutes later, as John sat in front of This Morning with a bacon sandwich securely in his belly, and a half-empty can of Coke in his hand, he suddenly realised that he wasn't going back to London until the beginning of September. He had three months stretching out ahead of him and not a single plan. Even the day seemed to go on for miles in John's brain: it was 9:45a.m., why was he even awake? 

John's mind drifted towards Sherlock. He wondered when would be the best time to go and find him. What if Sherlock didn't even live there any more? John hadn't even thought of that. Sherlock would be twenty now, like John, he might be at uni, or shacked up with a wife and kids somewhere. He knew plenty of people who were married with kids. Sherlock could be one of them. \---------------- 

John arrived at 11 Stanley Drive at 11:30a.m., after having a shower, reading the paper, and finding a nice pair of skinny jeans and a white t-shirt to wear. He decided that if Sherlock didn't live there, but his parents did, he would ask for a phone number or address, and if the family had moved, he would try to find his old best friend via Facebook. If that failed, well, what else could he do? 

The house was beautiful. John remembered it briefly, but it seemed much more grand, and much more impressive, a decade later. There was a huge curving driveway that led up to the three storey home, complete with fancy plants, fountains, and sprinklers, and after the fifteen minute walk to the front door (at least that's what it felt like), John stared at the gold-plated letters that said "Holmes" on a sign next to the door. That seemed positive, at least. John gulped nervously before firmly pressing the doorbell. 

Seconds later, a man in a nice black suit answered, looking John over before narrowing his eyes. "One of young Sherlock's friends, I pressume?" 

John stared at the man before smiling and saying, "Kinsley! Nice to see you, mate," and sticking out his hand for the butler to take. Frowning, Kinsley politely accepted the handshake, before taking a step back to look at John again. It wasn't surprising that Kinsley, who had been the Holmes' butler when John was friends with Sherlock, didn't recognise him. John may not have gotten much taller, but he was every bit a man now, with broad shoulders, a fit physique from playing sports, and the right social etiquette that could turn a grumpy teenager in to a polite young man in just a few words. 

"Terribly sorry," said Kinsley, "do I know you?" 

John grinned. "John Watson," he said, giving him a little wave. "I used to live in the village; I was friends with Sherlock. I fell and scraped my knee once and you put a plaster on it. Do you remember?" 

"Oh! Oh, indeed," Kinsley finally smiled, and seemed to relax. "Well, hello, John. Please come in." 

John was shown in to the lavish hallway while Kinsley disappeared, pressumably to find Sherlock, or perhaps his mother, Violet, who John remembered quite well. The house was just as beautiful inside, though it had undergone a refurbishment; it was terribly modern, with expensive pictures hung neatly from the walls and thick, posh rugs filling the floors. John felt like a commoner, stood there in his Primark jeans and Topman t-shirt, but he somehow felt welcome, just as he had a decade ago. 

Hearing footsteps, John turned to see Violet rushing towards him, her arms outstretched, dressed in an expensive-looking floaty dress, which went well with her pearl necklace and earrings. Her dark grey hair was piled on top of her head and her smile was genuine and wide. Kinsley followed but held back, now smiling. 

"John! My goodness," she gushed, gathering John in to a tight hug, "how lovely to see you. And let me _see_ you!" She let go of him suddenly, holding him at arm's length. "Goodness me, what a handsome young thing you are! Look at those muscles! Oh my, it is nice to see you. Though I have a feeling it is not me you're here to see?" 

Slightly overwhelmed, and smiling widely, John nodded. "Yes, well, I mean, it is lovely to see you, it's just that... Well, I was hoping to see Sherlock. Is he- is he here?" 

"He is, darling, although I daresay he won't be awake yet," Violet tutted. "He's back from university for the summer, and he spends all of his time in his room, usually waking up mid-afternoon, the lazy so-and-so. What about you, dear? Are you at university?" 

"I am, yes," John smiled. "I'm at uni in London. I study English Literature." 

"Ah, my subject," Violet beamed. "A great choice, John. I'm glad to hear you're at university like Sherlock, though I bet you take it far more seriously than he does." She looked John over again, clearly pleased to see him, and then turned to Kinsley. "Kinsley, would you take John in to the dining-room for some tea? I'll go and see if his Lordship can be awoken at such an ungodly hour." 

"Right away, madam. John, this way." 

Violet practically lept up the huge stairway, disappearing down a corridor, and John smiled after her as he followed Kinsley in to a large dining-room, impeccibly designed. As John sat at the table, he looked around, as if to find a clue as to what Sherlock was like these days. As he nervously waited for his old friend to arrive, he thought back to when they had been friends. 

{TWELVE YEARS EARLIER} 

"Do you think she's really a witch?" 

Sherlock Holmes regarded his best friend carefully, before narrowing his eyes. "Of course not, John," said the eight year old, "witches aren't real." He paused, looking thoughtful. "Well," he said, "Mycroft said that there _were_ witches, kind of, a long, long time ago, but they.. they weren't _really_ witches." 

John looked confused. "So if they were witches, but not _really_ witches, what were they?" 

"They were accused of being witches," Sherlock explained, nodding along with himself. "So if someone didn't like them, they'd say, 'Hey! She's a witch!', and then they would tell her to prove she wasn't a witch. And then they killed her. So they weren't really witches, but they got killed for being witches." 

John just frowned. "Okay," he said slowly. John knew that Sherlock's big brother, Mycroft, was sixteen and had almost finished school, so he probably knew everything by now. And he told Sherlock stuff too. "But... Is Mrs Lawrence a witch?" 

" _No_ , John, I told you," Sherlock sighed. "Witches don't exist." 

Mrs Lawrence did, in fact, look very witch-like. She was a tall, thin woman, with long black hair, a slightly pointed nose, and an unfortunate large mole on her chin. She was a stern, short-tempered woman who spoke loudly and harshly, despite being the headmistress of a quiet, cosy little primary school. The younger kids tended to believe Mrs Lawrence was a witch, and the older kids enjoyed teasing the younger ones, saying that if you got sent to her office, you'd be turned in to toad or put in to a hot couldron and served to the other teachers for lunch. John had never been to the headmistress' office and had never spoken directly to Mrs Lawrence, hence his fear. 

"When she finds out I put drawing pins on Adam Smith's chair, I'll be done for," Sherlock murmured, leaning back against the wall. He was just waiting for the door of the office to burst open and for Mrs Lawrence, who he had already met several times, to call him inside. "I'll be in a lot of trouble, this time," Sherlock continued. "Mummy will be angry." 

John glanced at his best friend. Adam Smith was the class bully, who got his own way by hurting others, through actions as well as words. He had been teasing John about his height, which was a sore spot for the eight year old, as he was a few inches shorter than most of the boys in his class. He knew, deep down, that it wasn't somethng he could help: his dad had told him this many times, but that didn't stop the bullying from Adam and his cronies. 

After their morning break, Sherlock had raced ahead, uncharacteristically eager to get back in to the classroom. John had seen him fumbling with something at Miss Webster's desk, and then he'd gasped as he saw Sherlock quickly put a handful of drawing pins on Adam's chair. Sherlock grinned at John as the class filled and the children went to their seats. One pained howl and a sore bum later, Adam was telling on Sherlock, who was usually the one to seek revenge when Adam was mean to John, and Miss Webster looked furious. 

John, in all honesty, had been thrilled. Adam hadn't been too hurt, so he didn't feel that guilty, and besides, bullying was mean. But Sherlock had done a lot of revenge-seeking lately, as well as a few not-good things that hadn't gone unseen by Miss Webster, and he'd had warnings that another trip to Mrs Lawrence would mean big trouble. It wasn't fair that Sherlock would suffer so much just for being a good best friend. 

As the door swung open, Sherlock took a deep breath and prepared to face the witch, but before he could get out of his seat, John got up and marched to the open doorway, face to face with Mrs Lawrence. 

"Mrs Lawrence," said John, his little hands shaking as he spoke to the scary headmistress for the first time, "I want you to know that it was me who put those drawing pins on Adam's chair, not Sherlock. Adam said it was Sherlock, and then Sherlock took the blame, so I wouldn't get in to trouble. But it was me, miss. I did it." 

The headmistress glanced back and forth between the two young boys. She looked thoughtful, wondering who exactly was covering for who, but the young boy had admitted it, and she had no reason to not believe him. Although she had had many meetings with Sherlock - who, like his brother, Mycroft, was incredibly intelligent but also quite arrogant for such a young age - she had not yet met his sidekick, John Watson. She wasn't entirely sure she believed the blond haired boy over his curly-haired best friend, but there wasn't a lot to be done. 

"Well, then. John, I am very disappointed in you, as Miss Webster will be when I tell her the truth," Mrs Lawrence said, folding her arms and looking stern. "What you did today was mean, irresponsible, and thoughtless. I will be writing to your parents later this week. As for now, you can both go." 

The two boys were silent as they left the school and began walking home together. A few metres away from the school, Sherlock stopped suddenly, and John stopped too, looking at him. 

"Why did you _do_ that?" Sherlock asked in a quiet voice. "You know lying is bad, and you're going to get in trouble, you heard Mrs Lawrence." 

"You're my best friend, Sherlock," John said simply. "And I know lying is bad, but so is bullying. You helped me so many times when Adam was being mean to me. I think you deserve to be let off for once." 

Sherlock looked at him, confusion written all over his young face, and then he grinned, wide and happy. "Thankyou," he said, and John smiled back. 

*************** 

John stood as he heard footsteps. Kinsley politely topped up John's tea as he stood, awkwardly, not entirely sure what to expect. He tried to picture Sherlock in his head: small, pale, messy curly hair... 

Violet came in to the room, smiling widely, the same smile as Sherlock's, if John remembered correctly. "John," she said, then looked behind her, frowning. "Come on, Sherlock." 

With an audible sigh, Sherlock stepped in to the room. He looked... 

_Different._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of things to note about this chapter:
> 
> \- John's grandad visits a respite centre for most of the day, five days a week; I know that there are respite services where people can go for a weekend, or a week, or a couple of days a week, as I've experienced; the amount of time Hamish spends there might not be realistic and if so I do apologise  
> \- John's interaction with Hamish may seem dramatic, especially if you haven't had experience with someone with Alzheimers, but unfortunately I have experienced this sort of situation
> 
>  
> 
> And just a note for future chapters:
> 
> \- As I am writing I'm finding that both boys are slightly OOC in terms of what we've seen in the series (although that being said, they are only twenty!). Please keep this in mind as I am NOT trying to write the characters true to how they are in the series; it is based on them.
> 
> All comments welcome, good or bad :) Thankyou very much for reading!


	3. Hello

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock reconnect, and despite having been apart for ten years, John turns to Sherlock in his time of need.

There was an awkward silence as the two young men looked each other over. John was immediately baffled by Sherlock, who was simultaneously completely different and exactly the same as he remembered. He was tall, about six foot, at a guess, and though his hair was still dark brown and distinctly curly, it looked different on the head of a grown man; it looked mature and elegant, and made Sherlock look very handsome. He was slim, as he had been as a boy, but his broad shoulders, firm arms and legs, and big hands proudly stated that he was no longer a child. Finally, his face was pale and smooth, no sign of teenage spots, like John occasionally still suffered from, and his eyes were the same unique grey that John suddenly remembered from a decade ago. 

Violet coughed, and Sherlock jerked, seemingly snapped out of a similar inspection of John, and he remembered his manners, marching forward and thrusting his hand in John's direction. 

"Hello," he said, and Christ was his voice deep. 

John took the offered hand and shook it firmly, smiling shyly. "Hello, Sherlock," he said, "Nice to see you again." 

"And you," said Sherlock, nodding before letting go of John's hand. They continued to stare at one another, and John wondered if Sherlock was thinking of all their childhood adventures, their games, their memories. John was certainly thinking of them as he once again glanced over Sherlock. 

John knew what attraction felt like. He had felt it many times. The spark in his stomach that felt like butterflies, the urge to bite at his lip suggestively, the slight weightlessness he felt as he tried to think of something to say, something interesting or funny. He had felt it mainly towards women, but there had been a few men, too. Though, John had to admit, he had never felt quite like this, this instant, exciting attraction to another bloke. 

"We'll leave you to it," said Violet, nodding at Kinsley to leave the room. "Lovely to see you again, John. Please, do pop by whenever you like; you are always welcome here." 

"Thankyou, Mrs Holmes," John called as Violet and Kinsley left. He heard a faint 'Oh, John; call me Violet!' before the door closed and John and Sherlock were alone in a room together for the first time in ten years. 

Sherlock motioned toward the large dining-table and they both took a seat, Sherlock at the head of the table, and John at the seat beside him. Sherlock raised his hips off the chair, fishing his mobile phone out of a very well-fitting pair of jeans, and John tried his best not to stare, but Sherlock caught his eye and smirked slightly. He placed his phone on the table and then steepled his hands together, facing John. 

"So," said Sherlock. "You're a uni student. English Literature, my mother told me." He inclined his head at John and then nodded to himself. "You pretend to love it, but you're not enjoying it as much this year; you're considering going in to something completely different. You're in your second year, obviously, and you would have stayed in London, but the contract for your latest place of residence doesn't start until September, and the one for your current flat has finished. Your mother moved back here to care for your grandfather, who has injured himself in some way; broken his leg, maybe, so he needs near-constant assistance. Your sister is displaying alcoholic tendancies and is involved with a man who is a few years older than her and quite possessive. You came back here for two reasons: because you had no other choice and because you're concerned about your family. You had a relationship throughout your first year of uni, but she cheated on you, and you got over her by sleeping around. You have bisexual tendancies but you would not consider yourself entirely bisexual, though you are re-thinking this now as you are very much attracted to me." 

Silence fell in the room as Sherlock stopped talking. John opened his mouth and then shut it again. He didn't know what to say first. He looked at Sherlock carefully. Sherlock met John's eyes and then his gaze fell to the table; he was blushing. As the silence stretched on, he began to fidget, seeming more and more embarrassed, almost as if the list of deductions had been a spontaneous reflex, not something he had intended to say. John sighed. 

"Well," he said, huffing a laugh, "Very good, but you got two things wrong." 

Sherlock's head snapped up. Their eyes met, and John smiled, lip curling. Sherlock's eyes quickly dashed between John's gaze and his mouth. "You're not annoyed?" 

"Why would I be annoyed?" John asked, then he laughed. "Actually, sod that. I can see why someone would be annoyed. You've done that to someone before and pissed them off, right?" 

Sherlock laughed, leaning back in the seat, and John once again tried not to check him out. It was difficult. He wasn't usually one to ogle - he would give girls the quick once-over, maybe comment to a mate about a nice arse or a good pair of tits, especially if he'd had a drink - but with Sherlock it was just... hard. He could see his firm stomach and his broad shoulders and John was so, so attracted to him. 

"I've annoyed some people, yes," Sherlock continued. "My friend, Greg, he's the local police constable, and he hates it when I pop up at crime scenes and get on the Detective Inspector's tits." He frowned. "Not literally, of course. For one thing, the DI is male, and for another... tits definitely aren't my area." 

John spluttered a laugh and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the dining table. "Wait, crime scenes? Why the fuck would you want to go to a crime scene?" 

Sherlock just smirked at him. "I'm sure you'll find out," he said, leaning forward too, so that they were both much closer, and frowned. "So, tell me, John, put me out of my misery. What did I get wrong?" 

"My grandad doesn't have an injury," said John, unable to look away from Sherlock as he spoke, "and Harry is a lesbian." 

"Damn it," Sherlock sighed. "I'm getting rusty. Not much to deduce around here, you know. Everything's just... the same," he shrugged. 

John let out a breath and said quietly, "My grandad has severe Alzheimers." 

Sherlock jerked, looking at John in shock, and then his face softened. "I'm so sorry to hear that, John," he said, biting at his lip. "Poor Hamish," he added. Then he smiled, faintly. "Do you remember when he took us to that cricket match in Devon? And we got lost?" 

The memory appeared in John's mind, fresh as anything: a beautiful and hot August day, Hamish buying them both an ice-cream, people everywhere, the horror of losing sight of his grandad. They had been about seven at the time: young enough to get scared about being lost in such a huge crowd. John had cried and cried once he realised they had seriously gotten lost, and Sherlock had put his arm around John and said "don't worry, we'll find him". They had been sat by an information kiosk for twenty minutes when John heard his name being called in the distance. It got closer and closer and Sherlock stood up and shouted at the top of his lungs and then suddenly Hamish was there, hugging his grandson, and then Sherlock too, and saying that it was all alright. Everything was alright now. The rest of the day was great, but John always remembered the fear of being lost in the crowd, and the relief of hugging his grandad. 

"My dad died." 

The words shook John from his trip down memory lane and he stared at Sherlock in shock. The other man wasn't meeting John's eyes; he played idly with his phone, tapping it against the table. John swallowed thickly as he remembered Sherlock's dad. He hadnt been like John's dad, fun and active and always up for something exciting and adventurous; he had seemed stiff and cold and uninterested in his sons. He wasn't around much. But he was still Sherlock's _dad_. 

"Heart attack," Sherlock continued, and John realised he hadn't said anything. "Three years ago." 

"I'm so sorry," John breathed. 

"Thankyou," said Sherlock. There was a pause and then he flashed a grin. "There," he said, "now we have something to bond over, don't we?" 

**************** 

There was a quiet knock on his bedroom door as John laid on his bed, watching Family Guy on his laptop and sorting through his uni folder. He had some work to do over the summer and he was facing the ultimate decision: do all of his work now, and get it out of the way, or leave it until later, and do it all at the last minute. Seeing as he didn't really have much to do, besides visit Sherlock and go on his laptop, he was thinking of starting it soon. 

Harry poked her head around the door, saw that John was decent, and entered the room, shutting it gently behind her. It was almost midnight and the house was quiet. 

"So, did you go and see Sherlock?" asked Harry, picking a pile of clothes off of the old wicker chair in the corner of John's temporary bedroom and throwing them on to a cardboard box so that she could sit down. John glanced at the clothes but didn't care enough to comment. 

"Yeah," said John. "He's changed." 

Harry snorted. "Yeah, he's hot, now," she laughed. "Who'd have thought? Little Sherly-No-Mates ends up looking like a fucking Armani model." 

John frowned at her. "Hardly your type," he said. 

"I'm not his, either. Wouldn't be even if I liked cock," Harry sniggered, and despite being twenty, John cringed at hearing his sister say that word. "You know he's got a boyfriend?" 

John finally sat up, taking notice of his sister properly. He had stayed at Stanley Drive for another forty minutes after meeting Sherlocka again, and they had talked about lots of things: the old days, their uni lives, their aspirations for the future. John had confirmed that he had had a girlfriend in his first year of uni - he met her on the first day and by the end of October they were a couple; she cheated on him in the following May and he got over her by shagging anyone who would spread their legs for him - and Sherlock admitted that he had managed to do a Facebook search in the ten minutes between his mum waking him up and him appearing in the dining room. They chatted, and laughed, and _flirted_ , John was pretty sure, and John had arranged to meet Sherlock and his two mates at the pub on Friday night, so why hadn't he mentioned his boyfriend? 

"So what if he has?" asked John. "Hardly homophobic, am I?'' 

"He's a bobby," Harry continued, ignoring her brother's reply. "He's called Victor. Must be a posh twat with a name like that, surely?" 

"He mentioned a police constable," John commented. "Greg, he said. Maybe you've got your wires crossed." 

"Well," said Harry, flicking her long brown hair behind her shoulders, in the way she did when she knew she was right about something, "Amy Hooper, from work, she's got an older sister, Molly, who goes out with this policeman, _Greg_ , who is _mates_ with another policeman, _Victor_ , who is going out with a bloke called Sherlock. How many Sherlocks live around here, John?" 

John just frowned at her. "Okay," he said slowly. "So... So Sherlock has a boyfriend. So what?" 

His big sister just smirked, gave him a "we both know what" look, and left his room. 

********** 

Hamish had a fall at the respite centre on the Thursday. 

The centre called home because Louise wasn't answering her phone. As one of the staff nurses informed John that Hamish had begun shouting at a member of staff and had tripped as he tried to leave the centre, hitting his head and spraining an ankle, John stared at his mum's phone which was sitting on top of the microwave with several missed calls. 

He panicked. There was no excuse for it; he freaked out. He didn't know what to do. The staff nurse was pleasant and told him the details for where Hamish was staying in the nearest hospital, and John wrote it down, thanked her, and then stared at the notepad for two minutes as his brain went dead. 

What use was he in a crisis? 

Somehow his body acted without consent of his brain and before he knew it he was ringing Harry. Luckily she had finished work twenty minutes earlier and was just leaving the off license. John babbled that grandad had had a fall, and mum didn't have her phone, and he had the hospital details, and he was scared. Harry calmly told him to relax and wait for her to ring him back. Ten minutes later she rang, asking for the hospital details: she had called Louise at work and was on her way to meet her and go and see Hamish. Louise had said that John should stay at home and wait for them to ring. 

After the shock wore off slightly, and John knew Louise and Harry were on their way to Hamish, John leaned against the kitchen counter and looked at his phone. He found himself going to his contacts list and scrolling down to 'S'. Sherlock had given him his number when John went to see him. 

John dialled. His eyes sank shut as he listened to the dialling tone. 

"Hello, John," came Sherlock's bored tone. John could hear a television in the background and what sounded like Violet laughing. 

John took a deep breath. "Hi Sherlock." 

Immediately, the noise grew quieter until it all but disappeared, and then Sherlock asked, "What's wrong? What has happened?" 

Jesus, he was good at reading people. "My grandad had a fall," John practically whimpered. He had a lump in his throat as he spoke. "I-I think he's o-okay," he said, "my mum and Harry are on their way to see him." 

"Do you want me to come over?" Sherlock asked. 

John paused. "I don't know," he said honestly. He felt embarrassed suddenly. "Shit, I'm sorry, Sherlock, I don't know why I rang you. I just felt so useless and I panicked." 

"That's quite alright," said Sherlock softly. "Quite flattering, actually, that you thought to ring me." 

John felt his face going red. Oh, it was, though, wasn't it? John could have rung any of his mates and yet he rang Sherlock, the one who was a ten minutes away and who he happened to be attracted to. Christ. 

"Never mind, John," Sherlock chuckled. "Listen, if you need anything, just ring me. I can come over or I can just talk to you on the phone. I don't mind. Oh, and if you can't make it to the pub tomorrow night, don't worry." 

"Thankyou, Sherlock," John sighed. They said their goodbyes and John hung up. 

************** 

"Oh, John, you look nice." 

John paused in the doorway of the kitchen as Louise and Harry looked up from their tea. Louise was smiling thoughtfully, but Harry looked suspicious, a forkful of baked beans raised halfway to her mouth. It was only half six, it was still bright outside and would be for a couple more hours, but John was dressed and ready to go and meet Sherlock and his friends at the pub. He had on his newest pair of jeans, which were skinny and black, and had been a final treat for himself with his Apri loan installment. He usually wore shirts to the pub, mainly to stand out in his crowd of friends, who wore similar t-shirts with slogans on them, but tonight he had gone for a plain white t-shirt that showed off his toned arms. He might be short, but in his own opinion, he was quite fit, and if Sherlock noticed that tonight, well... 

"See? That gym membership you paid for him _did_ pay off," Harry teased her mother, who tutted and continued eating, before looking back at John. 

"Who are you meeting tonight, sweetheart?" Louise asked. 

John shrugged and reached in to the fridge, grabbing a can of cider. "Sherlock and some of his mates. He didn't say who." 

"Well, I think it's lovely that you're friends with him again. I see him sometimes, on my way to work. He's so tall, isn't he?" 

John hummed in reply and caught Harry's eye over the rim of his drink. She smirked at him, and John glared, their mother totally oblivious to the interaction. John never knew if Harry's teasing was the typical sibling kind or something a bit more personal. She could be very mean, especially after a drink, and although John loved her and would always forgive her, it didn't mean her words hurt any less. 

"We'll have to leave at about seven, love," Louise said, finishing her meal and puhing her plate aside. "Visiting hours are until half past eight so that should be enough time." 

John bit his lip. Luckily, Hamish had only badly sprained his ankle; he hadn't broken it, but he was being kept in hospital until Sunday for observation of his head injury. John felt guilty about going to the pub to see Sherlock when his grandad was in hospital and his mum and sister were going to visit him. It had only happened yesterday, but that was still over twenty-four hours that an elderly and confused man had spent in a hospital bed. 

"Mum, are you sure it's okay that I go out tonight?" John asked, fiddling with the almost empty can. "Honestly, I don't mind coming with you and-" 

Louise stood from the table and took her plate and cutlery to the sink. ''John, it's fine. You're young, go and enjoy a few drinks with Sherlock; don't worry about your grandad. He'll be back home before you know it." 

"What about _me_?" Harry huffed, taking her own plate to the sink. " _I'm_ young, but I have to go!" 

Louise rolled her eyes at her daughter. " _You_ don't have plans. Now, I won't hear another word. John, love, go and have fun, enjoy your night. Harry, go and get your shoes on, we're going to the hospital." 

As Harry stomped past him, John smiled, the cider loosening him up slightly. Something told him he was in for an interesting night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, I'm sorry for not upating in so long,this has been a very hectic time for me as I have been graduating and basicially trying to decide what to do with my life (gulp). I'm afraid I won't be updating this fic in the near future as I have a lot on and ahven't really got the inspiration for it right now. I would rather not update, than update something that I'm not 100% happy with. I will update in the future, I am NOT abandoning the fic, I just can't promise the update will be soon. Thanks for reading and I hope you understand!

**Author's Note:**

> A few general notes for the entire story:  
> \- All situations involving Alzheimers are based on my own personal experiences with grandparents who had the disease; if you have any comments re the Alzheimers aspect of the story, I would love to hear from you, and feel free to get in touch, but please keep in mind that it is based on my own experiences and they may differ to yours  
> \- This story is AU and although elements of the show's characters will remain the same, i.e. Sherlock's deduction skills and Harry's alcoholism, other aspects will change to benefit the story  
> \- Updates will usually be every few days but they might be less frequent during May as I am finishing university (gulp!)  
> \- I love reading your comments so if there is anything you'd like to say, good or bad, please do get in touch :)


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